


Power Out

by notablyindigo



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Spoilers, drugs cw, post-2x22
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:37:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notablyindigo/pseuds/notablyindigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My attempt to answer the call for post-2x22 fic following Sherlock’s attempt to find Joan.<br/>Beware: here be spoilers.<br/>Drugs cw</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power Out

**Author's Note:**

> What's the plan?   
> What's the plan?  
> Is it a dream? Is it a lie?   
> I think I'll let you decide.  
> Just light a candle for the kids.  
> Jesus Christ, don't keep it hid!  
> -"Power Out", Arcade Fire

The NSA will be of no help.

Sherlock decides this moments into his meeting with Agent McNally, judging the set of the man’s mouth and his avoidant gaze, but he swallows the deduction and tries to convince him anyway.

No use. They’ll try, Agent McNally says. But this is Watson’s safety. Watson’s life. Trying isn’t nearly enough.

Sherlock storms into the brownstone and throws down his keys in the foyer (he seems to be throwing a lot of things these days, bracing for a telling-off that doesn’t come). What the hell is the use of being surveilled by a government agency if they can’t be bothered to deploy their resources to find—

He’s at the foot of the bookshelf ladder, looking up at the the thick, deteriorating spine of the book at the end of the upper left shelf. He could fetch it down. He could flip open the cover, he could reach inside, he could— 

It’s only fair, isn’t it? Just like with Rhys’s daughter. He could do it but it would take too long. It would take too long and they don’t have time, he doesn’t have time, she doesn’t have the time for him to take the slow path. He grips the sides of the ladder, hoists himself up one rung, then two. 

It would be easy.  
Joan would never forgive him.   
She would, she would, she’s a sober companion, she knows that mistakes happen.  
But she’s not a sober companion, not his sober companion, anymore.   
He’d be doing it for her.  
Then she would never forgive herself, either. 

Sherlock steps down from the ladder. He has to call Gregson, has to call Bell and enlist their help. He feels about in his pocket for his phone for a moment before remembering that, ah, he had smashed that too. He snatches a burner phone out of the box on his desk and punches in Captain Gregson’s cell phone number. Gregson picks up on the second ring. In the background, Sherlock can hear the clinking of silverware against plates and the thin strains of a slightly out-of tune violin. 

"Holmes, this had better be important." 

"Captain," Sherlock says, pocketing his keys and rushing out of the brownstone. He steps in front of an approaching cab, waving his arm manically. The cab screeches to a halt, and Sherlock leaps into the back seat. "It is, I assure you, a matter of the utmost urgency." 

——

Sherlock apprises Bell and Gregson of the situation, nervously pacing the room rather than sitting in the proffered chair in front of Gregson’s desk. Bell stands by the windows looking out onto the rest of the department while Gregson sits, fingers steepled, in his office chair. 

"So, let me get this straight. You think your brother’s in bed with Le Milieu, and that he’s given Joan up to them to…what? Keep ‘em happy?" Sherlock, arms stiff at his sides, clenches his fists.

"Mycroft’s motives are of little interest to me at the moment, Captain. What I know is that that this man," He slams his hand down on the desk over the printout of the photograph Watson had taken of the Frenchman, "has kidnapped Watson and has stated his intent kill her in the next hour if we don’t deliver him the list. Which he won’t get, because Mycroft has absconded with both it and Herr Yoda." Sherlock works his jaw, the vein in his temple leaping beneath the skin.

"You have no idea where they might be keeping her? Maybe their base of operations—" Bell asks. Sherlock whirls on him and advances a few steps toward him before stopping. 

"I texted both of you everything I know while en route to the station," he says, breathing in deeply through his nose in an effort to retain composure (even he knows that flipping tables and sweeping desks of their contents won’t be tolerated here). "While we stand about talking, we are wasting time. We are wasting Watson’s time. The Frenchman does not strike me as a man who makes threats idly." 

Bell looks over Sherlock’s shoulder at Gregson.

"Captain, we’ve got to do something," he says, and Sherlock notes the barest hitch in Bell’s voice. Yes, he’d suspected as much. 

Gregson’s chair groans as he gets to his feet. 

"I don’t suppose you have the phone they called your brother on?" he asks, and Sherlock shakes his head. Gregson sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Sherlock loses his temper.

"Honestly, Captain, I expected better of you. If it were one of your own who had been abducted, would you have even hesitated to send out a search team?" Bell puts a tentative hand on Sherlock’s arm. 

"Holmes—" he begins, but Sherlock shakes him off. 

"Watson has been instrumental in solving countless cases for this precinct," he seethes, increasingly losing control over his tone. "It seemed to me that you consider her a friend, hm? But perhaps not. Perhaps to you she’s just—" 

"Holmes." The insistence in Bell’s tone stops Sherlock this time, cutting his tirade short. Bell holds up his mobile for Sherlock to see. 

"They didn’t take the battery out of Joan’s phone," Bell says, pointing to a blinking point on the map on the screen. "Data team was able to trace her back to this cluster of abandoned warehouses by the docks." Over Bell’s shoulder, Sherlock can see a team of officers in dark vests and protective gear gathering. Bell grins at Sherlock, pocketing the phone. 

"Let’s go get her."


End file.
